


Courtly Love

by GhostofBeltanesPast



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, F/M, Hand Feeding, M/M, Multi, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28913793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBeltanesPast/pseuds/GhostofBeltanesPast
Summary: A generally-medieval AU in which Everybody Lives, adventures are had, and the female characters are in fact characters instead of cardboard cutouts (and sometimes save the day).[polyship, ot5, happy ending]
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Courtly Love

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I'm gonna warn you straight-up before you start reading that this fic is going to be sporadically updated at best. It's a passion-project, and while I'm in it for the long-haul, this definitely takes a backseat to other stuff and probably won't update more than a few times a year...and considering that I have, quite literally, a novel's worth of plot laid out, this is going to be a test of endurance.
> 
> Which is to say, this isn't going to be complete for an extremely long time, and I can't promise I won't end up abandoning it (although I do believe I'll finish it one day). If you aren't interested in long-term WIPs, I understand. I'm mostly posting this in the hopes that it'll light a fire under my ass to at least work on it quarterly lol.

Prompto won’t stop pacing around the antechamber; the sharp tattoo of his boots has had Ignis’ teeth set on edge for what feels like an hour, so it’s no small wonder when Gladiolus finally snaps.  
  
He barks a sharp “Hey!”, turning in the nearly-too-small chair to glower, book all but forgotten in his lap.  
  
Leaning over his shoulder, Ignis can see that he’s barely made it through five pages this whole time...and indeed, it’s no small wonder. The room echoes terribly, which hasn’t helped the palpable tension building in the last two and a half hours.  
  
The volume alone is enough to freeze Prompto in his tracks, something the others might feel sorry about later, but he stops, and blessed silence descends…  
  
...at least, until Gladiolus boils over. They all know he has a temper, especially when his rare opportunities to read are interrupted, but as justified as the frustration is, Ignis isn’t so sure he likes the way Gladio stands to his full height and stalks over to crowd Prompto into a corner.  
  
“You _mind_ ?”  
  
There’s a flicker of something in Prompto’s eyes, the cornflower blue hardening into something a bit more like cold steel as he juts his chin out.  
  
Six months ago, he would never have dreamt of standing up to anyone, least of all the crown prince’s sworn knight, his second-oldest friend and most devoted protector -- but a lot can change in six months.  
  
Ignis watches the boy (and he is barely more than a boy, despite being nearly their age) square his shoulders and draw himself up as well.  
  
For the briefest second his breath catches, the worry that Gladiolus might hurt him somehow crowding in, no matter how irrational…but it seems Prompto doesn’t share that fear; or, if he does, he’s chosen to ignore it for now, his thin hands resting on Gladiolus’ broad chest.  
  
Ignis wonders if he’ll push the knight out of his space.  
  
Something in Gladiolus’ posture changes when Prompto touches him, though. He doesn’t shrink, really...just...softens, somehow, almost melting as he leans forward and presses his hands against the wall to bracket Prompto in, and Ignis knows what it’s like to be constrained like that, all that warmth enveloping him --  
  
And by the time he’s wrested his brain back from the memories of stolen kisses and touches (as if they were only in distant memory and not something he’s as likely to feel tomorrow as the next day), Prompto’s hands are fisted in Gladiolus’ hair and the sounds of wet, messy kissing are filling the room instead of the sharp tap of boots where softer court shoes were more appropriate.  
  
A pair of chambermaids pass through from outside with baskets of linens, tittering and whispering behind their hands; they hurry away as he levels a disapproving glance at them, although he sees them pause in the doorway and turn back to giggle at him, too.  
  
It’s good, he supposes, that the servants are comfortable here and not afraid of their king and his retainers. It _is_ a good sign...however uncomfortable it is to be the subject of gossip.  
  
He sighs and settles onto the couch, plucking the needlework off the side table and setting back to work. The prince’s surcoat is nearly finished, but there’s still plenty to do before the wedding day. There’s no time to be worrying about maids and their manners, when there are seating arrangements to be made and foreign dignitaries to please, like a certain unfortunate uncle, and representatives from a much larger and grander empire than their own modest kingdom.  
  
If only the prince would take these meetings more seriously, they might not drag on so long...and if he could simply be there to guide him -- as an advisor _should_ \-- it wouldn’t be too difficult to keep him in check, but his majesty had barred him from attending meetings until the ascension took place. Ignis can see the logic, of course, even if thinking about it too much leaves him so tense he catches himself jiggling one leg in place, his soft leather shoe making a sort of swishing noise against the tiled floor.  
  
Naturally, his majesty is in the right. Of course he is -- he’s the king, after all.  
  
But Ignis worries, particularly about his highness; they all do, which is why they now spend meetings waiting in his rooms, ready with food and comfort and listening ears for whatever grievances he might need to air when Noctis inevitably storms down the hallway and flings the doors open.  
  
The meat is always cold by the time he returns, despite being fetched hot off the racks in the kitchen. Cold meats and cheese aren’t so bad, though, when they’re paired with fresh butter and bread kept warm in a bowl nestled into the banked ashes of the fireplace. It would be nice if he could convince the prince of what Prompto’s told him many a time, that peasants eat a great deal more plant matter, and his highness might find some of his troubles would pass more easily if he’d simply try it -- but whether it’s snobbery or simple distaste for the flavors, he won’t have it, and his highness has never been shy about using his authority to push for what he wants.  
  
Perhaps it should be strange, that he can be so selfish at one moment and then the picture of generosity the next, taking in Prompto without hesitation as a teenager, insisting to his majesty that he was old enough to require more retainers and that Prompto was essential to his well-being, just to spare the boy the abuses he’d suffered before...but that was Noctis. Staggeringly kind, thinking nothing of grand acts, and then turning around and making the most petulant and childish of demands.  
  
As if summoned by the thought, the doors are flung open; they fall shut again on their own, although he can hear the door guards catch them to keep them from banging shut again.  
  
Despite being the crown prince, and _very_ much an adult, Noctis slouches onto the opposite couch like a wayward teenager, kicking his feet up onto it without any consideration for the upholstery.  
  
Ignis is faintly relieved that Gladio and Prompto at least have the decency to stop making out and pay attention to their prince...although from Noctis’ assessing glance as he gnaws idly on a piece of cheese, Ignis suspects the display wouldn’t be an unwelcome distraction.  
  
“Higness,” he greets, as neutrally as he can manage.  
  
There’s a large part of Ignis that would like to ask him to take his feet off the couch, and another part that wants to ask how things went and try to counsel him through his frustrations, and yet another that wants to offer comfort in whatever form he desires…  
  
None of those things, though, are what he’s been instructed (more or less) to do.  
  
And more importantly, at least in his mind, none of those things are nearly as urgent as the surcoat he still has to finish. Tradition dictates that the mother of the betrothed would normally do the fancy-work, but…  
  
Well, it has to be Ignis.  
  
It’s fitting, besides; he’s bandaged scraped knees and kissed scuffed palms, plucked slivers, rubbed shoulders heaving with sobs, chastised about the importance of diet and manners, and generally been more parent to Noctis than even his majesty.  
  
The thought brings with it the slightest hint of guilt, the feeling of blasphemy inescapable, but it is still objective truth. His majesty had a kingdom to run and maintain, matters of politics and diplomacy and so much more to see to, and someone had to care for his son.  
  
If Ignis feels strange about being surrogate parent and friend _and_ lover to Noctis, there’s no need to voice that internal struggle to anyone else. He’ll protect his prince and care for him in every way he can, until he takes his last breath. No one will ever hurt Noctis again, if he has any say in the matter.  
  
And he knows the others feel the same -- Gladio gives Noctis’ hair a fond ruffle as he passes by to settle beside Ignis again, retrieving his abandoned book. Prompto, for his part, plucks the lute from the rack along the wall and settles on the floor besides Noctis to pick at it idly. The tune is strangely melancholy, an odd choice considering his usual cheerful dance tunes...but something in the music is _right_. As he plays, Noctis relaxes fractionally, fists unclenching finally, and his breathing slowing.  
  
Little by little, his shoulders drop, and he settles back against the pillow. The elaborately plucked tune is mesmerizing, and even Ignis finds himself compelled to settle against the couch and simply listen. By the time the song winds down, Gladio’s book is forgotten again, and from the startled looks on the others’ faces, Ignis isn’t the only one surprised to realize his eyes had fallen shut while he listened.  
  
Prompto pauses after the final chord, biting his lip before chancing a glance up at Noctis.  
  
The adoration in his eyes is as clear as ever -- even before Noctis reaches a hand out to trail tender fingers along one too-thin cheek.  
  
Privately, Ignis is relieved that Prompto is relaxing more around others, not so skittish anymore...but he hasn’t entirely lost the resemblance to a whipped dog, often still eating far less and needing to be reminded that there’s plenty, and he’s very welcome to it.  
  
Still, as he sits at Noctis’ feet, the prince feeds him bites of food idly. It reinforces the canine impression somewhat, although it’s more a relief than anything. At least he eats when prompted; perhaps next time Ignis can deputize Gladio to feed Prompto bits of food while reading, to prevent unfortunate pacing incidents. It -is- somewhat difficult to be too anxious while eating, he’s found.  
  
As he eats, Prompto launches into another, this one livelier. It’s meant to be accompanied by a pipe and drum as well, but Ignis is much too busy right now to be playing a pipe.  
  
It doesn’t stop him from whistling the tune as he works, though, completely missing the delighted grin Noctis and Gladio share.  
  
Getting Ignis to relax enough to do something like whistling is an accomplishment on _any_ day, and doubly so at such a stressful time as the preparation for a wedding and subsequent ascension.  
  
He pricks himself with the needle when the drum starts up; he’d been so caught up in the delicately arching vine, and despite his size, Gladio is plenty capable of moving near-silently when he wants to...Ignis mutters a curse and glances up at Gladio, sucking on the injured finger.  
  
For his trouble, he gets his hair ruffled -- briefly, since he’s had enough years of practice to see this coming and swats the hand away, albeit not quite fast enough to avoid all mussing.  
  
“Do you _mind_ ?” He mutters, mirroring Gladio’s earlier indignation, although with much better humor.  
  
The others simply laugh; despite himself, and despite the fancy-work that still needs to be finished, Ignis leans back into the couch and laughs with them.  
  
There’s so much, yet, to do -- so much tension and strain and worry, and so little time to finish all that has to be prepared -- but at least they have this moment of reprieve.


End file.
